"You talk of accommodation, Shu San, but the Edict is quite clear on this. We are not here to interpret but to implement. We do as we are told, yes?"
To Lwo Kang's left Shu San bowed his head abjectly. For a moment all eyes were on him, sharing his moment of shame. Minister Lwo sniffed, then spoke again.
"Only this afternoon two of these businessmen—Lehmann and Berdichev—came to me. We talked of many things in the course of our audience, but finally they presented me with what they termed an 'ultimatum.' " Lwo Kang looked sternly about the circle of his junior ministers. "They said that certain factions were growing impatient. Hsien Sheng Lehmann even had the impudence to claim that we have been subjecting them to unnecessary delays. He says that our officials have been over-zealous in their application of the Edict's terms."
There was an exchange of glances between the seated men. None had missed that the Minister had used the term Hsien Sheng for Lehmann—plain Mister Lehmann, not even the commonplace Shih, or "Master"—when proper etiquette demanded the use of his full title, Under Secretary. It was a deliberate slight.
Lwo Kang laughed sharply, sourly, then shook his head in an angry gesture. "The impertinence of these men! Because they have money they think themselves above the laws of other men!" His face formed a sneer of disgust. "Hsin fa ts'ai!"
This time there was mild laughter from some quarters. Others, not understanding the term, looked about them for guidance, and formed their faces into smiles, as if half-committed to the joke.
Again Lwo Kang sniffed and sat back a little in his chair. "I'm sorry. I forgot. We are not all ch'un tzu here, are we?"
Lwo Kang looked about him. Hsin fa ts'ai. Social upstarts. Ch'un tzu. Gentlemen. These were Kuan hua, or Mandarin terms. But not all who sat about him were bred to the tongue. More than half the men here had come up through the levels; had schooled themselves in the five Confucian classics and climbed the ladder of the examination system. He did not despise them for that; quite the contrary, he prided himself on promoting men not through connection but because of their natural ability. However, it sometimes made for awkwardnesses. He fixed his gaze on Shu San.
"We will say no more of this, Shu San. You know now how I feel. We will have no further talk of accommodation. Nor will I see these men again."
Shu San bowed his head, then met his lord's eyes, grateful for this second chance. He had come expecting less.
Lwo Kang smiled and looked away, his whole manner changing, relaxing. He had the reputation of being a scrupulously fair man, honest beyond reproach and incorruptible. But that was not to say he was liked. His appointment, three years earlier, had surprised some who saw family connection as a more important quality in a man than honesty or competence. Nonetheless, Lwo Kang had proved a good choice as minister responsible for the implementation of the Edict.
While his subordinates talked among themselves, Lwo Kang sat back, contemplating what had happened earlier that day. It did not surprise him that there were those who wanted to subvert the Edict's guidelines. So it had ever been, for the full 114 years of the Edict's existence. What disturbed him more was the growing arrogance of those who felt they knew best—that they had the right to challenge the present order of things.
These Hung Moo had no sense of place. No sense of li. Of propriety.
The problem was one of race. Of culture. Though more than a century had passed since the foundation of Chung Kuo and the triumph of Han culture, for those of European stock—the Hung Mao, or "redheads" as they were commonly known—the ways of the Han were still unnatural; weye at best surface refinements grafted onto a cruder and less stable temperament. Three thousand years of unbroken civilization—that was the heritage of the Han. Against that these large-nosed foreigners could claim what? Six centuries of chaos and ill-discipline. Wars and further wars and, ultimately, collapse. Collapse on a scale that made their previous wars seem like oases of calm. No, they might seem like Han—might dress and talk and act like Han—but beneath it all they remained barbarians. The New Confucianism was rooted only shallowly in the infertile soil of their natures. .At core they were still the same selfish, materialistic, individualistic species they had ever been; motivated more by greed than duty.
Was it so surprising, then, that men like Lehmann and Berdichev failed to understand the necessity of the Edict?
Change, they wanted. Change, at any cost. And because the Edict of Technological Control was the Seven's chief means of preventing the cancer of change, it was the Edict they tried to undermine at every turn.
Lwo Kang leaned back, staring up at the roof of the dome high overhead. The two great arches of the solarium met in a huge circular tablet, halved by a snakelike S into black and white. Yin and yang, he thought. Balance. These Westerners have never understood it; not properly—not in their bones. It still seems some kind of esoteric game to them, not life itself, as it is to us. Change—the empty-headed pursuit of the new—that was the real enemy of civilization.
He sighed, then leaned to his right, listening, becoming at once the focus of their talk.
They are good men, he thought, looking along the line of faces. Han, every one of them. Men I could trust my life with.
Servants passed among them, mutes who carried trays of ch'a and sweetmeats. GenSyn eunuchs, half-men in more senses than one. Yet even they were preferable to the likes of Lehmann and Berdichev.
Yang Lai was talking now, the tenor of his words strangely reflective of Lwo Kang's thoughts.
"It's a disease that's rife among the whole of this new generation. Things have changed, I tell you. They are not like their fathers, solid and dependable. No, they're ill-mannered brutes, every last one of them. And they think they can buy change."
Lwo Kang stretched his bull neck and nodded. "They lack respect," he said.
There was a murmur of agreement. Yang Lai bowed, then answered him. "That's true, my lord. But then, they are not Han. They could never be c/i'un tzu. They have no values. And look at the way they dress!"
Lwo Kang smiled, sitting back again. Though only in his late thirties he was already slightly balding. He had inherited his father's looks—a thickset body already going to fat at waist and upper chest—and, like his father, he had never found the time for exercise. He smiled, knowing how he looked to them. I am not a vain man, he thought; and in truth I'd be a liar to myself if I were. Yet I have their respect.
No, it was not by outward show that a man was to be judged, but by his innermost qualities; qualities that lay behind his every action.
His father, Lwo Chun-Yi, had been born a commoner; even so, he had proved himself worthy and had been appointed minister to Li Shai Tung in the first years of his reign. Because of that, Lwo Kang had been educated to the highest level and had learned the rudiments of service in his earliest years. Now he in his turn was the T'ang's minister. He looked about him again, satisfied. No, there was not one here who did not know him for their master.
"What these Hung Mao need is a lesson," he said, leaning forward to take a shrimp and snow pickle sweetmeat from the tray on the footstool next to him. He gulped it down, savoring the sweet, spicy hoisin sauce on his tongue, and belched appreciatively. "A lesson in manners."